


(You Got the Way to) Move Me

by DemiCas



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU – real world, Benny rolls his eyes, Bisexual Dean, Castiel POV, Dean is protective, First Kiss, Gay Castiel, M/M, Neil Fucking Diamond y'all, completely fluffy, meet cute, moving day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:54:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27221548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DemiCas/pseuds/DemiCas
Summary: Castiel hadn't exactly known what to expect when the moving van showed up in front of his building, but Dean Winchester was certainly not it.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 2
Kudos: 64





	(You Got the Way to) Move Me

**Author's Note:**

> Holy crap, y'all. I was just looking at my dashboard and realizing that I hadn't posted anything in almost TWO YEARS. WTAF? I have tons of WIPs, which, okay, fair, because I don't post things until they're _done_ , but I actually have five finished fics, but I can't post them because one is out for feedback and three are part of a 'verse _for which I have not written the founding fic_ , because I am an idiot. So that leaves this one, which I have held onto because I have been obsessively editing it over and over. I think I must have some form of separation anxiety.
> 
> It is a slight thing, fluffy and undistinguished, but I hope it will provide you with a not unpleasant half-hour read. Or so.
> 
> NB: There are two _extremely_ obscure quotes from indie comics near the end of the story. Anyone who correctly identifies even ONE will win a special prize!

“Hadda be third floor, didn't it?”

Castiel glanced back at the man carrying a box full of his pots and pans and trying to look casual about it. “I'm sorry,” Castiel said, not looking directly at those mossy green eyes. He didn't want to fall and break his neck stumbling over himself. “I enjoy being on the top floor.”

The mover ducked his head down as if trying to hide a smile. “Leave off 'floor,' and we're getting somewhere,” he murmured, probably not intending for Castiel to hear him. Castiel's stomach lurched.

“Aw, quit whinin', Dean,” the man at the end of their little queue drawled. “Y'sound like my old man. Cowboy up, brother.”

The first mover shrugged and flexed a well-toned bicep as he shifted his grip on the box, apparently unconsciously. Maybe. “Yeah, that's what your sister said,” he muttered. The other man laughed shortly. “Don't you worry, Mr. Novak,” green-eyes said more loudly, turning to flash Castiel a disarming grin. “You're the boss; we'll get ‘er done.”

“Please, call me Castiel,” Castiel said, risking a glance at that handsome face. His stomach took another little swoop. _Damn._

The mover continued stumping up the stairs, breathing only a little harder than he had been at the bottom. He smirked. “Sure thing, Castiel. And you call me Dean, right? And that reprobate back there is Benny.”

“I – uh,” Castiel stammered, tearing his eyes away from the mover’s broad shoulders, “yes, of course. Dean.” Castiel nodded to each in turn. “Benny.”

They all crowded on the landing in front of Castiel's apartment. Castiel fumbled with the keys – why hadn't he left the door unlocked? He wasn't in Chicago anymore, for godssake.

“Sometime this year,” Dean grumbled. “Shut up, Dean,” Benny said.

The door opened; the three men shuffled inside. “Where d'ya want it?” Dean asked innocently enough, but there was a twitch at one corner of his mouth that made Castiel suspicious. “Bathroom? Bedroom? Kitchen table?”

Castiel raised an eyebrow, almost pathetically pleased that he hadn't blushed. “Kitchen, please. Anywhere out of the way.” The two movers grunted their assent and trudged off to the right. Castiel took his box into the living room and deposited it on the built-in desk. His laptop, of course, he hadn't packed, but this box had all his work in it, so he'd brought it in the car, not daring to trust it to the moving company, no matter how well-insured they were or how… _charming_ their employees.

He opened the box with his penknife and pulled out his dictionaries and references books and began arranging them on the shelves above the desk. In the background he could hear the movers leaving the kitchen, the clatter of someone going back down the stairs. He shrugged. They knew their job; he could direct them as they moved the boxes into the apartment.

“Whatcha got there, Cas?” came a voice behind him. Castiel jumped, dropping his _Oxford Latin Dictionary_ to the desk top.

He scooped up the precious volume before its spine could crease and whirled around to find Dean looking at him with an expression of friendly interest. “Sorry. Didn't mean to startle ya,” he said, frowning a little. He sounded like he meant it, but there was still a gleam in his eye that Castiel didn't know what to make of. “I wasn't _tryin’_ to go stealth.”

Castiel fussed with the book, feeling strangely awkward. “No, it's all right,” he murmured. “Sometimes I get…focused on a thing and lose track of my surroundings.”

Dean crossed his arms across his (well-developed) chest and hitched a hip on Castiel's desk. Castiel frowned; wasn't he paying this man to _work?_ “Sooo, whatcha got there?” the mover asked again, gesturing with his head to the books above the desk. His eyes were really _very_ beautiful, and wonderfully framed by those absurdly long lashes…

Dean made a small throat-clearing noise, and Castiel blinked. “Oh, these are just my reference books. For work. I'm a translator. I translate texts for people. From other languages. Freelance.” God, now he was babbling.

The mover looked mildly impressed. “Cool,” Dean said. “Like, I dunno, Spanish and French and stuff?”

Castiel found outlet for his nervous energy in quickly shelving the rest of the books. It helped that doing so meant he wasn’t further distracted by Dean’s cupid’s bow lips or his square jaw. “Some, but I actually specialize in archaic languages, such as Latin and Classical Greek.”

Dean scratched his jaw with his fingertips; Castiel could hear the faint rasp of stubble against callouses. He tried not to wonder what that stubble would feel like under his own hand. “Like the _Odyssey?_ Or the _Aeneid?_ ”

Castiel's eyebrows arched in surprise. “Well, those have been translated any number of times, but yes, some of the manuscripts and fragments I've worked on have come from similar time periods.”

Dean turned his head to take in the little work space around him. “So, you work from home, then?”

“Most of the time,” Castiel replied, wondering how the hell he got into this conversation with this particular person. “Sometimes I have to travel to consult with a client if the source material is so fragile or damaged that it's difficult to photograph, but mostly people just send me scans or photos by e-mail. I’ll be going into the University some days.”

“Pay well?”

“Enough. I have an apartment; I eat; I have cable.”

Dean jumped off the corner of the desk, brushed non-existent dust off the back of his jeans. “Sounds like a pretty awesome job, man,” he said easily. “Get to be your own boss, save your knees and back.” He laughed, just a short chuckle, then turned and looked Castiel in the eye. He still wore his half-snarky little grin, but there was something…else in his eyes. “Still, a little lonely, maybe. Get out much? Hobbies? Clubs?”

Castiel swallowed; was the man flirting with him? He couldn't tell, and he found that a bit disorienting. “I just moved here,” he said somewhat helplessly. “I haven't assessed the possibilities for socializing as yet.”

Dean stared at him for a moment, then laughed again, a deeper, fuller laugh, and Castiel’s stomach gave up on swooping and decided to drop right down to his knees. “You crack me up, dude,” Dean said, clapping Castiel on the shoulder. He glanced at his watch and sighed. “Oh, well, better move my ass,” he said cheerfully. “I get paid by the job, not the hour.” He winked before turning away, leaving Castiel feeling befuddled and not a little aroused.

He sighed. It was going to be a _long_ day, he could tell.

Castiel hadn't exactly known what to expect when the moving van showed up in front of his building, but Dean Winchester ( _Winchester_ it said in blue embroidery across his chest pocket, not _Dean_ , just as the other man's shirt read _Lafitte_ , not _Benny_ ) was certainly _not_ it. Castiel had met Benny first, with his clipboard and sad eyes and slow, soft, southern drawl. Castiel was checking to see that all was correct with the paperwork when he was aware of another person coming around the side of the van, quickly, with a certain swagger that put his defenses up at once. He wasn't in Chicago anymore—he was in _Kansas_ , and he had no idea what kind of rednecks he might run into. Benny seemed all right, so far, but what about…

Then Castiel had looked up from the clipboard into humorous, moss-green eyes, set in a beautiful face, atop a absolutely _gorgeous_ body, and all his people skills leaked out of his brain like melted wax. “Buh?” he said intelligently.

“Hey there, Mr. Novak,” the young god before him said brightly. If he noticed that Castiel was staring at him, gaping like a stunned fish, he gave no sign. “Got all your stuff for ya. Transfer company dropped it off yesterday, an' Benny and me, we made sure it was all here. Should be nothin' missing. You ready to go?”

Castiel closed his mouth, trying hard not to drop his gaze to the perfect curve of this _Winchester's_ smiling mouth. Or those strong arms. Or that broad chest. “Uh, well, um…”

“I think Mr. Novak's gone over the list, right?” _Lafitte_ prompted helpfully. Castiel nodded absently. “Why don't you go open the truck, brother?”

Adonis grinned. “Sure thing, dude.” Lafitte tossed the keys at his partner, who caught them neatly out of the air without seeming to look at them. He gave Castiel a long hard look, then turned away, leaning in to whisper to his co-worker, _sotto voce_ , “Let me know when he gets back to earth, huh?” Then he slapped Lafitte on the shoulder and went back to the truck.

Castiel had swallowed hard, his face hot. He was so screwed.

The morning was just about as excruciating as Castiel had feared.

On the one hand, the two movers did actually get to work, falling into a steady rhythm that meant they interrupted him only when a box was ambiguously labeled or when they needed to consult him about furniture placement, leaving Castiel to clean and unpack in peace. On the other hand, whenever they _did_ stop for clarification, it was always Dean, and he seemed to just…linger, managing to turn every innocent question into a mini-conversation, usually about Castiel. After every encounter, Castiel told himself he had to stop fraternizing and get to work (and let Dean get to work!), but every time the mover approached him with that boyish grin and those curious eyes he lost all sense of time and decorum and babbled like a teenager on his first date.

It was so frustrating. What was this man up to? What did he want? And how did he get Castiel—socially reserved, introverted Castiel—to talk so easily about anything and everything while never really revealing anything about himself? Just two short hours, and Castiel had somehow ended up revealing his occupation, how many siblings he had, how many years he'd spent in college, _and_ his top five favorite books, but all he knew about Dean was that he knew of the _Aenead_ and the _Odyssey_ (Castiel had no idea if he'd actually _read_ either one) and that he had a brother named Sam of whom he was obviously very proud.

“Hey, Cas! Where do you want this?”

Castiel looked up sharply from where he was laying down contact paper in the kitchen cabinets and smacked the back of his head against the lip of the counter. He made an inarticulate noise of pain and fell back on his rear, clutching his head with both hands, eyes tight against the tears starting in them.

“Shit!” a voice said, then there was a warm hand pressing against his own, trying to pry his fingers away. “Hey, buddy, lemme see that.” Dean's voice.

“Ngh…” Castiel groaned. God _damn,_ that hurt!

“C'mon, Cas,” Dean urged, sounding very much the cajoling big brother, though Castiel was sure _he_ was the elder by three or four years. “Lemme look. I've seen plenty of broken heads before—I know what to do.”

Castiel slowly brought his hand away from his head. It felt sticky. Oh, god—he was covered in blood…

“Oh, yeah, that's a nice one,” Dean chuckled. _Chuckled_. Didn't the man know Castiel was _dying?_ His head was feeling a little light, now, his stomach a little sour.

“I'm _bleeding,_ ” he hissed between clenched teeth.

“You'll live,” Dean said heartlessly. There was the sound of the tap going on and off, then Dean began to press on the wound with something soft and damp. “Scalp wounds bleed like motherfuckers…” He moved the cloth away and probed at the spot with strong fingers. Castiel yelped, half in pain, half in irritation at Dean's casual sadism. “…but this is just a scrape, really. You'll have a little bump, a little cut, but you don't need stitches or anything. I don't even think you need urgent care.” He pressed the cloth back in position. “Here, hold this for a bit; the bleeding should stop soon. I'm going to see if I can scare up some ice.”

“I don't have any ice,” Castiel said; he knew he sounded petulant, but he was _bleeding_. “I just moved in.”

Dean came around into Castiel's view. He was laughing, which should have made Castiel angry, but somehow didn't. “Yeah, I got that, Cas,” he said amiably. “I'll go ask your neighbors. Just hold that thing there.”

 _What thing?_ Castiel thought, then he noticed that Dean's uniform shirt was missing; he was wearing only a black t-shirt. A _tight_ black t-shirt. Castiel swallowed. “All right,” he said.

Benny clattered in as Dean headed for the door. He looked down at Castiel, still sitting on the floor, holding Dean's shirt to the back of his head. “God _dammit_ , Dean—what did you do?”

“Me? _Me?”_ Dean sounded like he was going for outrage but couldn’t stick the landing. “I didn't do nothin'. Cas knocked the back of his head on the counter when he was standing up. Just a flesh wound. I'm off to look for ice.”

Benny sighed. “Oh, don't bother; I got some blue ice in my lunch cooler. 'Bout time for a break anyhow.” Grumbling, he stumped back down the stairs. “Grab my lunch, too, Benny!” Dean called after him. Castiel heard a faint “Yeah, yeah,” then silence.

Dean turned and held out a hand to Castiel. “You wanna try for vertical? Not too dizzy?” He smiled, but he wasn't laughing anymore.

Castiel squinted up at him. “I think I'm all right,” he muttered, but he took the proffered hand anyway. Dean tugged, and Castiel pushed with his legs, and he was upright. Briefly. A wave of pain and vertigo swept over him and he stumbled. Right into Dean's arms.

“Whoa!” Dean said with a grin. “Easy there, champ. Guess your melon took more of a knock than we thought, huh?”

Castiel felt his face go hot. He still had one hand pressing Dean's shirt to the back of his head, but as he'd stumbled, he'd grabbed onto one of Dean's biceps with the other. A smooth, solid, well-shaped bicep. Dean had both hands on Castiel's shoulders, not a tight grip, but firm and steadying. They were practically nose to nose; this close, and Castiel could see the pale freckles scattered across Dean's cheeks, could see the flecks of gold and darker green in his eyes. He knew he should pull away, but he didn't seem to be able to move. He saw Dean's expression slip into something softer—concern, maybe, but also a bit of hesitancy. “Um, Cas? You okay?” he asked quietly.

Castiel shook himself mentally. “Uh, yes. I-I just got light-headed for a moment. If you could help me to a chair…”

Dean blinked. “Yeah! 'Course. Right over here.”

Quickly, yet gracelessly, they managed to hobble over to a kitchen chair, and Castiel sank down on it in relief. Benny came in a moment later with a blue ice pack, which Dean wrapped in his bloody shirt and pressed back onto the wound. Castiel hissed in pain, but said nothing. “You got any aspirin, Cas? Ibuprofen?” Dean asked.

“Somewhere,” Castiel said through clenched teeth. “Packed. I don't know.”

“We got a first-aid kit in the truck, Dean,” Benny said.

“Right. I'll get it.” Dean gave ice pack duty over to Castiel then hared off down the stairs; it sounded like he was taking them two at a time.

Benny looked after him for a moment, his expression unreadable, then turned back to Castiel. “You okay, Mr. Novak?” he asked. “Need a doctor?”

The ice was starting to help—at least the bruise didn't throb so much anymore. “ _Castiel_ , please.” He took a deep breath. “Your partner took a look at the wound,” he continued. “He said it wasn't too bad, even though it bled a lot. Scalp wounds do that, apparently?”

Benny nodded. “Sure can. Like a stuck pig, sometimes.” He smiled a little. “Well, if Dean says it's not too bad, you're probably safe.”

“Yeeees,” Castiel said slowly, remembering. “He said he'd seen 'a lot of broken heads in his time.'”

Benny barked a short laugh. “I can believe that. Our Dean was a bit of a scrapper in his younger days.”

Castiel frowned. “Scrapper?”

“Oh, don't get me wrong, Mr. —Castiel.” Benny put up his hands. “He didn't pick fights just to fight, but he's always had this _chivalrous_ streak, if ya know what I mean. Standin' up for a girl's honor, protectin' the little guy, that kind of thing. Made him well-acquainted with busted heads.” He looked back towards the apartment door, a small, fond smile on his face. “And a' course he has that baby brother—Sam was kind of a runt when he was little, see, 'fore he turned into a moose, and he was always gettin' picked on. And Dean was always right there, givin' the bullies what-for.”

“Oh, yes,” Castiel said. He switched hands on the ice pack. It felt good on his head, but it was _cold_. “He mentioned his brother earlier. He seems quite proud of him.”

Benny nodded as he pulled a sandwich and a container of fruit salad out of his little cooler. He raised his eyebrows in question; Castiel nodded minutely, trying not to jog his head too much. Benny sat next to him at the table. “Oughta be,” he said. “He practically raised that boy after their mom died, his pop being…” He broke off, frowning, as if he'd realized he was about to cross some line. “Well, let's just say the old man never really got over her death, huh? So, there was Dean left with little Sammy, and Dean did his goddamn best, and the kid grows up good. Real good. Smart, good heart. Got a full ride to Stanford, even. Damn right Dean's proud.”

They both heard Dean coming back up the stairs at the same moment, and that was the end of the conversation, much to Castiel's dismay. Just when it was getting _interesting_.

“Here ya go, Cas,” Dean said as he entered the room, a small bottle in his hand. “Unpacked any glasses, yet?”

Castiel sighed. “No. I think the box is here somewhere, though…”

Dean put the bottle on the table in front of Castiel, then grabbed the battered paper bag Benny had brought up off the counter. “Nah, don't bother. You can have some of my Coke.” He handed Castiel the can after wiping the top off with his t-shirt and popping the tab. Castiel tried not to stare at the sliver of skin this maneuver revealed, nor at the elastic of the underwear peeking over the waistband of his uniform pants. “It's not real cold, though. Sorry.”

“This will be fine,” Castiel said, dragging his eyes away from Dean's body to his face. “Thank you.”

“Hey, no prob,” Dean said as he opened the bottle of ibuprofen and shook out two tablets. “Kinda my fault, anyway, scarin' you like that.” He smiled ruefully. “Seems to be my thing today, sorry.”

Castiel put down the ice pack so he could take the pills and washed them down with warm cola. “It's no one's fault, Dean,” he said as he passed the can back to Dean. “It was an accident.”

A shadow passed over Dean's face. “Yeah, well, I shoulda' been more careful. You already told me you sometimes kinda, um, lose track of your surroundings. I shoulda' remembered.”

Castiel opened his mouth to take responsibility for his own absent-mindedness, but Benny cut him off. “It's all right, Dean,” he drawled. “You keep apologizin', you're gonna make Mr. Novak uncomfortable. Let it go, brother.”

Dean shrugged and turned to his own lunch, sitting on the other side of Benny, but his brow remained furrowed. He pulled out his food and started in on his sandwich. Castiel sighed and switched hands on his ice pack again.

Dean paused mid-chew. “Don't you eat, Cas?” he asked.

Oh, god _dammit_. Was he going to spend the entire day looking like an idiot in front of this man? “Um, I haven't gone shopping yet,” Castiel mumbled, blushing. Again.

Dean laughed, tipping his head back, showing the long line of his throat, and _god,_ he was beautiful. “Oh, Cas, what would you do without me?” He took half of his sandwich and pushed it front of Castiel on his napkin, then dug into his bag for a banana, which he peeled, broke in half, and likewise shared. “Dean,” Castiel said in some alarm, “you can't…”

“Bullshit,” Dean said calmly. “'Course I can.” He turned and started rooting through Benny's lunch cooler.

Benny swatted at his hand. “Dammit, Dean—that's _my_ lunch.”

Dean continued to dig. “Suck it up, dude. Cas doesn't have _any food_. And he's _wounded_.” He emitted a cry of triumph as he brought out a small pudding cup. He waved it in front of Benny's face, smirking. “'Sides, I know you always pack _two_ of these, ya big glutton.” He slid the cup over.

Castiel blinked from one man to the other. Dean was looking _exceedingly_ pleased with himself, even smug; Benny looked mostly amused, as if Dean's strange behavior was so familiar that he'd stopped being annoyed at it years ago. “I really can't…” Castiel began.

Benny sighed and waved a world-weary hand. “Naw, it's fine, really. I don't really need two of those things, anyway.” He fell back to eating with a mild, preoccupied expression that seemed to shut out any possibility of further discussion.

Castiel blinked, then picked up the sandwich and started to eat, his mind turning. What had happened, here? He narrowed his eyes and glanced across the table at Dean, who seemed completely absorbed in his food, apparently deriving more pleasure from a simple ham sandwich than Castiel had seen many restaurant diners receive from the finest world cuisines. Castiel's chewing slowed as his glance became a look, the look became a stare. Who was this man, this man had who waltzed into his apartment all snark and sex and pretty green eyes and ended up asking questions about Castiel's language tutors and fixing Castiel's broken head and giving him half his lunch?

Dean's eyes flicked up, caught Castiel's; Castiel held his gaze for an instant, then dropped it, as if it had all been an accident.

When they'd all finished their food, Dean stood and stretched (showing another flash of bare stomach, damn him!). “Welp, back to the grind, guys. But first, lemme see that head, Cas.” Castiel pulled the sodden shirt away from his head, let Dean poke at his skull with rough yet gentle fingers.

“Yep,” Dean said, sounding as satisfied as if he'd healed Castiel of a malignant melanoma. “Bleeding's stopped, and I think the ice kept the little bump you got from being a goose egg.” He clapped Castiel on the back. “Congratulations—you're gonna live.”

Castiel smiled, just one corner of his mouth. “I'm glad to hear it. I was…concerned.”

Dean laughed and reached for his bloody work shirt, but Castiel snatched it out of his way. “Let me wash this,” he said gravely. “Technically, it's a biohazard.”

Dean raised his eyebrows, his expression ambiguous. “You sayin' you're dangerous, Cas?”

“Sometimes.” Castiel's smile stretched out sideways. He felt suddenly and strangely bold. “My _blood_ is not, as it happens, but it never hurts to be cautious.”

Dean paused, then nodded as if he understood, though there was a puzzled crease to his brow. “Yeah, right. Well, you do that.” He shot Castiel one last glance as he turned to leave for another load.

After that, everything was different. All morning Castiel had been in a froth of confusion, embarrassment, and—call it what it was—lust, but after interacting with Dean at lunch, and after Benny's small revelations, he felt as if he'd got a bit of a handle on things. A handle on one Dean Winchester, specifically.

So, instead of going off into his own head that afternoon, Castiel watched Dean, and _he_ was different, as well. He still had that swagger, that façade of careless bravado, but Castiel could now see something else beneath it—a caution and a softness Castiel found both a little surprising and incredibly attractive. Dean was still curious and chatty, but he was very careful not to surprise Castiel again, even in the safest of situations. He asked after Castiel's head two or three times over the next hour, and inspected it once. Castiel caught him a couple times just beginning to reach to help him with a box or piece of furniture before drawing back discretely. He joked less but smiled more. Castiel liked that smile.

 _This is a man who takes care of people_ , Castiel thought, and the realization sent a strange thrill through him, like yet unlike mere physical arousal. He began to hope that Dean _was_ flirting, not just because he wanted into the man's pants (though he did want that, _oh god yes,_ he wanted that), but because the idea that this careful, gentle person could possibly be interested in _him_ was both flattering and exhilarating. Emboldened by his new perspective, he was able to work past his own nervousness and begin to ask Dean questions about _his_ life rather than just babbling out his own story every time Dean gave him that encouraging little grin.

It was hard work, though—harder than Castiel had been expecting; for all his smiles and easy banter, Dean was evasive about his own life, deflecting (usually successfully) the conversation back to Castiel when things threatened to get too personal. It was only when Castiel started to ask about the younger brother that Dean dropped his defenses and became voluble, praising and teasing in equal measure, and his obvious love for and pride in Sam just made him _more_ attractive, dammit.

Castiel watched Benny, too, and that proved almost as interesting as watching Dean. It was obvious that Benny knew Dean well, and it was _fascinating_ to watch Dean be protective and careful of Benny, as if on instinct, while Benny was obviously just as protective of Dean, but from a place of greater self-awareness. More than once Castiel caught Benny watching him talk to Dean as if he was trying to determine Castiel's motives, his eyes narrowed and his expression almost preternaturally uncommunicative. _What are your intentions towards our Dean, young man?_ Such intense scrutiny could have been unnerving, but Castiel found it instead strangely reassuring to know that Dean inspired such intense loyalty. Sometime mid-afternoon, however, Benny apparently decided that Castiel was no threat and stopped hovering. Castiel felt absurdly pleased by his tacit approval.

The only thing Castiel still couldn't figure out, even with all his watching and observing and questions and encouragement, was whether Dean was _really_ coming on to him or not. His caution after Castiel's accident in the kitchen seemed to turned off the sex and turned on some parental instinct in him, and as charming as Castiel found that, it was also frustrating, because now he was _ready_ for the sex; he _wanted_ it. He tried an innuendo or two himself, but he'd never been good at that, and Dean had just looked at him like Castiel had handed him a dead eel and turned back to work with a polite but puzzled smile.

Now that Castiel had found his feet and his focus, the day that had threatened to be interminable sped by too quickly, and by three the last box was stacked out of the way in the corner, the last bookcase pushed up against the living room wall. Benny was getting Castiel's signature on the final piece of the paperwork, Dean was shutting up the truck, and then they'd be gone.

Castiel stared down at the receipt in his hand, feeling suddenly lonely and small. For a few hours he'd been able to forget that he'd moved away from his family and (admittedly few) friends, away from the bustle and energy of Chicago to come to _Lawrence,_ _Kansas,_ for godssake. Yes, the fellowship the University had offered him was a godsend, the stipend nearly doubling what he made from translation alone, but now that he was here, as an evening spent alone stretched before him in his mind's eye—and all the long evenings after that—he began to wonder if it had all been worth it. He folded the receipt neatly away into his pocket and sighed.

There was movement in his peripheral vision: Dean moving slowly and cautiously into Castiel's space. “Hey Cas, you okay?” he asked gently. “Your head's not bothering you again, is it?”

Castiel looked up into those bright eyes and for a minute he didn't know what to do. _I'm all alone here. I like you. Stay._ He blinked, then smiled gamely. “No, it's fine, Dean. I—I guess I was just realizing how much work I have ahead of me, unpacking and all.”

Dean grimaced sympathetically. “I feel ya, man. I spent most of my childhood hopping from one place to another. Moving sucks.” His face brightened suddenly. “Hey, why don't I hang out with you for a while, maybe help you unpack a little? Then later we could grab some dinner at a place I know down the street—cheap beer, good pizza, darts, pool. You know, get you acquainted with your new neighborhood. Whattaya say, huh?”

Castiel stared, completely sideswiped by the suggestion. He was vaguely aware of Benny still moving around in the background, cleaning up packing paper, but all Castiel could focus on was Dean and his hopeful grin. He struggled to get his brain to respond cogently to the situation. “Um, you don't have to do that Dean,” he finally managed, a little lamely.

“Of course I don't _have_ to,” Dean said dismissively. “I _want_ to. I'm done for the day, don't have any plans otherwise. _And_ I happen to know you don't have any food in the house.” His smile turned mischievous, and Castiel couldn't help smiling in return.

“All right,” he said, trying not to sound too pathetically grateful. “I'd appreciate that.”

  
“Then I said, ‘What was I _supposed_ to do with that cat, Samantha?’” Dean said, waving his arms. Beer sloshed but didn’t spill.

Castiel snorted his own beer through his nose. Dean laughed like it was the funniest thing in the world, mouth open wide, all his teeth showing, and that more than made up for the sting and the cough.

“You didn’t,” Castiel gasped when he could breathe again. “Poor cat!”

Dean shrugged, looking suddenly and unexpectedly a little abashed. “Well, the cat was dead at the time.”

Castiel grinned down at the beer mat on the scarred table—an artsy thing for a craft IPA the bar didn’t even sell—and shook his head. “You’re ridiculous,” he said. He looked up again. “Did Sam ever forgive you?”

Dean was gazing at him with a crease between his eyebrows, though his mouth was relaxed and smiling. He seemed caught for a second, just staring, and Castiel felt a blush begin to creep up his neck. Just before the moment got too awkward, Dean shook himself and took a long pull on his beer. “Eventually,” he said with studied nonchalance. “I mean, it’s not like _I’d_ killed the thing, after all.”

Castiel didn’t remember the last time he’d had this much…fun. Just plain, uncomplicated, hanging-out-with-other-people fun, no awkwardness or drama or trying to figure out who was trying to pick up whom.

And yes, he’d given up on the whole picking up thing. Dean’s switch from sexy bastard to hovering mama bear had changed their whole dynamic, and Castiel was surprised to find that he was okay with that. He’d looked into the yawning chasm of loneliness, of unpacking his new apartment in solitary silence, and then Dean had swooped in and gotten Castiel’s kitchen in order in just over an hour, then had dragged him down for beer and pizza and darts. He’d regaled Castiel with hilarious stories of his strange and peripatetic childhood and listened as Castiel told stories of his own, Dean just as engrossed whether Castiel was talking about his crazy brothers or describing obscure translations unfolding like puzzle boxes, revealing their secrets little by little. It was nice. It was good.

_I like you. Stay._

Dean lived in town, so maybe they could continue to do this, meet and talk and drink beer. Just get to know each other, keep each other company. And maybe someday Castiel would figure out if Dean was interested in men, and maybe something more might happen, and Castiel would be able to run his fingers over that stubbled jaw, to kiss that perfect mouth, to watch lose long, thick lashes stutter against that freckled cheek as Castiel broke him down…but no. For now, this was good. And even if _this_ was all there ever was, that was good, too. Sex was nice—okay, sex was _wonderful_ —but friendship was, in Castiel’s experience, finer and more precious.

Dean knocked back the last of his beer and set the bottle (no fancy drafts for _him_ ) down on the table with a little sigh. “Welp, that does me for tonight,” he said, stretching and cracking his back. Castiel winced in sympathy. “I gotta get up at five ack emma, and you said you still had a piece of furniture to bring up from storage?”

Castiel hastily finished his own beer, and began fishing for his wallet. “Only if you have the time,” he demurred. “I don’t need it right away. I bought a dresser on Craig’s List, local, and my landlord was nice enough to let me keep it in the basement until I moved in. It’s not so much heavy as bulky, but if you need to get to bed, I can hire someone…”

“Pfft,” Dean said, pulling a twenty out of his own wallet and handing it to Castiel. “Nah, It’s only eight-thirty,” he said. “I don’t go to bed till ten.”

Castiel pushed the money back at Dean. “Dean, I’m paying. You’ve already done enough for me today, and off the clock, too.”

Dean pushed it back. “Consider it a house-warming gift.”

Castiel frowned and returned the bill. “A thank-you gesture,” he said.

Dean took his beer bottle and smacked it on top of the bill with an air of finality. “Welcome Wagon.”

Castiel rolled his eyes. “You’re impossible.”

Dean shoved the last of the pizza crust in his mouth and talked around it. “It’s been said.”

“Oof, you lied, dude—this is heavy as fuck.”

Castiel paused on the stair and shifted his grip on the dresser. “I apologize,” he panted. “It didn’t seem as heavy when Hannah and I put it in the basement.”

“Yeah, well, that was only one flight, dumbass. You live on the _top_ floor, ‘member?”

“Hard to forget at this juncture,” Castiel grunted as they started up the last few steps. Dean snorted, but said nothing.

Castiel had remembered to leave the door not only unlocked, but open, and between the two of them they managed to wrangle the mid-century modern piece through the entryway with only one injury—Castiel’s fingers got scraped trying to get the thing past the jamb—and into the hallway and around the corner to the bedroom.

Dean, who was in front, set down his end of the dresser with a sudden _thunk_. Castiel, not prepared, took an extra step and stumbled, almost falling on top of the thing. “All right, genius,” Dean said as he stared into the room. “Where the hell are we putting this? Your room is armpit deep in boxes!”

Castiel peered around him and made a disparaging noise. “Don’t exaggerate, Dean,” he said. “You can see that if we take a sharp turn to the left once we get through the door, we’ll be fine.”

Dean studied the space again. “Yeah, if you want to break a few laws of geometry,” he muttered. “Or physics.”

“What, you don’t think you can do it?” Castiel was just loose enough from the beer and good company to feel comfortable with a little teasing. “Mr. Professional Mover?”

Dean’s eyebrows flew up. “Is that a challenge, Mr., uh, Nerdy Translator Guy?”

Castiel bit back a laugh and narrowed his eyes into his best dubious squint. “Yes.”

Dean was wearing a t-shirt, but he made motions like he was rolling up his sleeves. “All right then, let’s move this bitch.”

It was beginning to look like Dean was right: no matter what they did, the dresser did not want to make it around that corner. They tried coming in at an angle, tried coming in straight and pivoting, but the turn was just too tight. They even tried standing the damn thing on its end, but its legs caught in the doorway. It was frustrating—and a bit humiliating, considering how Castiel had teased Dean—but at least he was entertained by Dean’s increasingly colorful and inventive cursing.

“Okay,” Dean panted, laying his head on arms folded across the top of the dresser. “We need a plan B.”

Castiel ran a hand through his hair. He was sweating, ugh. “I think we’re perhaps on plan E by now. Or F.”

“F, as in Fuck This Noise,” Dean said, straightening up. His jaw was set, and there was a determined gleam in his eye. Despite his fatigue, his scraped fingers and aching muscles, Castiel felt a little thrill shiver through him.

“Okay, dude,” Dean said. “The problem is that we don’t have enough room to maneuver; we need to bring the dresser further into the room before we try to turn it, but your bed is in the way.” Castiel opened his mouth, but Dean held up a hand. “ _And_ , we can’t move the bed because there’re too many boxes in the room. So, what do we do?”

Castiel tried not to smile. “Move some of the boxes?”

Dean clicked his tongue and shot at him with a finger-gun. “Yahtze.”

They wrestled the dresser back into the hallway, then Castiel squeezed his way around it into the bedroom to find Dean surveying the space as if it had personally insulted his mother and he was contemplating a fit revenge.

“Damn, you got a lot of shit, Cas.”

“It’s mostly books,” Castiel said, trying not to sound defensive, “but the living room was getting crowded.”

Dean waved his hands at the mess. “So now your _bedroom_ is crowded!”

Castiel shrugged. “I only sleep here.”

Dean gave him a look that he couldn’t quite decipher. Castiel swallowed.

“Yeeaah,” Dean said slowly, and his eyes flicked down and back up. “Okay, but—” He stopped, coughed, and fixed his gaze on the bed as if it were suddenly the most interesting thing in the universe. He was strangely still for a moment, then he sucked in a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and stood up straight. He gestured. “We need to get _those_ boxes out of the way so we can push the bed against the wall,” he said, all business now. “If we do that, I think we can get the dresser in.” He turned to Castiel, eyebrows raised. “Sound good?”

“Um, of course,” Castiel said, wondering what that had been all about. “Let’s do that.”

Dean waved his arm. “Those boxes, behind the bed. We need to move them into _that_ corner. We’ll need to stack ‘em high, so be careful, and remember to lift with your knees—these suckers are heavy.” He grimaced. “I remember; I carried ‘em in.”

“I know how to lift boxes, Dean,” Castiel said, not quite managing to suppress an eye-roll.

Dean clapped him on the shoulder. “Then get a move on, Sisyphus.”

Castiel must have given him an incredulous look because Dean said, affronted. “What? I read.”

Castiel shook his head, smiling, and got to work.

There were a lot of boxes, and the space was tight, but they fell quickly into an efficient rhythm. Dean obviously knew what he was doing and seemed to make room for Castiel whenever necessary, flowing back into the empty spaces once Castiel had moved on. Their shoulders brushed once, twice, but otherwise it was like a dance, easy and smooth.

So, of course, Castiel had to ruin it all.

They’d finished stacking the boxes. They’d got the damn dresser in at last, pivoted with mere inches to spare around the left edge of the doorway. They’d got it against the long inner wall, where Castiel fussed, edging it first right, then left, then right, then, oh, just a little more! until he was satisfied with the placement and Dean was rolling his eyes good-naturedly. Castiel stood back to take one last check…

And backed right into a pile of boxes stacked at the end of the bed. No harm done—they were book boxes, sturdy and hard to move, but he stumbled and let out a startled little _eep!_ and then Dean was reaching for him to steady him, and _he_ caught his foot on a box that had been placed at an angle and stumbled into a different pile, and the top box of that pile shook and teetered, and as they both watched in frozen fascination, it tipped away from them to fall with a loud and satisfying crash on Castiel’s hard oak floors.

Of course, _this_ box had fallen on its corner, deforming its shape. _This_ box perhaps hadn’t been taped as carefully as it should have been. _This_ box, of all the damn boxes Castiel had packed and sealed and sent from Chicago to goddamn _Lawrence, Kansas_ , split open and sent its contents skittering over half the room.

Dean swore, loudly and colorfully, and turned to survey the damage. “Shit!” he reiterated and drew his hand over his jaw and sighed. “Sorry, Cas, I’ll get this cleaned right—oh, hey! DVDs!”

 _This_ box.

Castiel felt all the blood drain from his face. He wanted to swoop down and shoulder Dean out of the way, to scoop up all the little plastic boxes before Dean could examine them too closely, but he knew it was too late. It was all too late. He knew he’d find out where Dean fell on the Kinsey Scale eventually, but not now, not so soon. And not like this. His stomach clenched.

Dean was on his knees, gathering the DVDs in. “Hey, you got The Lord of the Rings extended version?” He lifted a box, peered at it, and his face broke into a wide grin. “Oho!” he said gleefully. “I’ll bet there’s some _extended versions_ in this bunch!”

Castiel looked on, paralyzed, as Dean rifled through the boxes, fanning them like playing cards and chuckling to himself. He didn’t sound disgusted, at least.

“Wow, man, you’ve got some classics, here!” Dean whistled. “’Boy’s Night’ from _Casa Erotica._ There were only three of those, if I remember. Oh my god—you have all three?” He looked up and winked. “You _dog!_ ”

Castiel’s mouth moved, but nothing came out. He closed it again.

Dean picked up some more titles. “Oh, dude…you have some Eamon O’Rourke! I loved ‘Blind Date.’ Man…” He pulled up another box. “You have ‘The Body Shop’!” he exclaimed, then stopped suddenly, and Castiel thought his ears turned pink. Dean put the box down carefully and shuffled it back into the pile. “Um, I’ve heard of that one, I think.”

 _That one_ was pretty heavy-duty BDSM. Castiel’s stomach released its knot and filled itself with light, fluttering things.

Still he said nothing, but watched as Dean, silent now, slowly and carefully stacked all the DVDs together in a few neat piles and set them back in the battered box. More slowly still he climbed to his feet, brushed off his knees, and stood turned a little away, so that Castiel only saw the outline of his jaw, the edge of his brow, one high cheekbone.

“So,” Dean said casually, though his voice was maybe pitched slightly higher than usual, “queer as fuck, huh?”

Castiel swallowed. “Gay as a spring lamb,” he replied, trying for the same casual tone, though whatever was rioting in his stomach made him want to scream. “You?”

Dean shrugged. “Bi,” he said. “Which means _everybody_ thinks I’m a pervert.”

That surprised a little laugh out of Castiel, but Dean just stared at the floor, one hand rubbing the back of his neck, his expression ambiguous. He seemed to be working himself up to something.

Several long seconds went by before Dean seemed able to screw his courage to the sticking place, but eventually he exhaled in a tiny sigh and turned to Castiel, and all the bravado Castiel had seen earlier in the day, all the swagger, teasing, and (maybe) flirting—even that parental concern and carefulness—was gone, replaced by a smile that was strangely hesitant, even shy. “Does that mean,” he said, and his eyes flicked to the floor again before coming back up to meet Castiel’s, “that if I said I’d like to kiss you, you’d maybe say…yes?”

A strange shiver sped all through Castiel’s body, from his feet to his head, down his arms to his fingertips. His scalp prickled. “Oh, god, yes,” he breathed and broke into a perfectly idiotic grin. “ _Please_.”

And then Dean was right before him, cupping his face with his big, calloused hands, and there were his lips on Castiel’s, god, so much softer than he’d even imagined, moving so gently and carefully, and _oh_ , it was a _good_ kiss.

First kisses are tricky things. Anticipation can make them overwhelming…or huge disappointments. They can be awkward and messy or dry and clinical. Maybe noses collide or teeth click uncomfortably. Maybe one person’s breath doesn’t bear the closer examination.

But no. Castiel had never had a _perfect_ kiss before, and he doubted this was one, either, but it was pretty damn close.

Dean started out slowly, as if he wanted to memorize the moment, sliding his mouth lightly across Castiel’s, his own barely open—no tongue, just lips pulling and slipping, his breath warm and tasting of beer and tomato sauce. Castiel was content to follow his lead at first, content to feel the texture of his lips, his sandpaper stubble against his own, to smell the mixture of aftershave and sweat on his skin.

But then Castiel took Dean’s bottom lip between his teeth and worried it slightly, and Dean’s hands slid back behind Castiel’s neck, his fingers pressing against the nape, thumbs on his jaw, and Castiel shuddered. He grabbed Dean’s hips and held on, fingers tightening. He flicked his tongue out, a question, and Dean took it almost delicately into his mouth and sucked on it gently before letting go. Sighing, Castiel pressed forward, just enough to feel the heat of Dean’s body against his, to verify the hard shape against his hip, but then Dean was pulling back slightly and pressing his forehead to Castiel’s.

“Yep,” Dean drawled. “’Bout what I figured.”

“Figured what?” Castiel asked breathlessly. _Why are you_ stopping _?_

“That kissing you would be awesome,” Dean said. He pulled back a bit more, sliding his hands down Castiel’s biceps; he was grinning like a Cheshire cat, the smug bastard.

“I’m not so sure,” Castiel said, pulling a small frown.

Dean’s eyes went almost comically wide. “What?”

Castiel shook his head. “I think that _might_ have been the best kiss I’ve had in the last, oh, three or four years, but I’m not sure.” He broke into a slow, sly smile. “I think I’ll need more examples for comparison.”

Dean grinned wider. “I can do that,” he purred, and pressed Castiel back, deeper into the bedroom, back against the bed, down, down onto the mattress, warm and strong and hard, and it didn’t take very long for Castiel to verify the proof of his hypothesis, though he was happy to collect as many samples as he could.

**Epilogue**

“You know, Cas,” Dean said lazily, stroking Castiel’s stomach, fingers whispering across his hipbones, down his thighs, “you have a really pretty cock.”

Castiel, who had been floating on endorphins and awe, startled and opened his eyes to stare down at the top of Dean’s head. “What?” he said stupidly.

Dean played with the curls at the base of said cock, soft and spent and wiped lovingly clean. “I mean, I like uncut guys, too—that can be fun. You know, like a present. You just peeeel back the wrapping paper, and there it is, all bright and shiny.” His voice went soft, almost dreamy. “But I kinda like this, where it’s right out in the open, like a big red gumdrop, or a lollypop, ready for me to suck.” He darted down and licked the head of Castiel’s dick, which, despite the monumental orgasm of just ten minutes previous, gave a tiny, hopeful twitch. Castiel growled and gave him a sharp smack on the back of the head.

Dean looked up at him and grinned, and, though he tried to keep up his disapproving glare, Castiel’s lips twitched up. “How many licks does it take to get to the center of your Tootsie Pop, Cas?” Dean asked, his voice going low and teasing.

Castiel laughed. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to wait a little while to find out—I think you’ve sucked this one dry for the time being.”

Dean made a noise like _pfft_. “Look at you, mixing your metaphors,” he said dismissively. “And you some big academic type.”

“I like to think of it as mental flexibility,” Castiel said. He looked down at Dean with a knowing smirk. “I’m nothing if not…flexible.”

Dean’s eyes brightened. “Man, I like the sound of that. Like, can you put your ankles behind your head? Because that would be awesome. And really hot.”

“I can,” Castiel confirmed. He yawned. “Though I don’t think I have the energy to demonstrate right now,” he said. “Maybe next time.” Dean brightened at that, like a kid who’d found an extra present under the Christmas tree, and Castiel, who’d hardly realized what he’d said, felt his stomach shiver in nervous anticipation.

They lay quietly for a while, Dean tracing loops and curves on Castiel’s skin, Castiel’s arm around Dean’s shoulder. Castiel’s mind drifted over the eventful day, going where it would. He thought of the first sight of those green eyes, the sliver of skin exposed when Dean raised his arms, the (definite) flirting. Dean helping him unpack. Beer and darts. Music in the bar—it was an oldies station, and he suddenly remembered one song in the mix, and he smiled.

“You got the way to move me,” he sang under his breath. “You got the way to groove me.”

Dean went stiff and still. “Dude,” he said, sounding deeply offended. “Did you just quote— _misquote_ —Neil fucking _Diamond_ at me? You, you— _heathen_.”

Castiel laughed. “And yet you knew it was a misquote, so who’s the bigger heathen?”

“Yeah, well, know your enemy and all that,” Dean said huffily, and Castiel laughed again.

Dean spread his hand over Castiel’s stomach, fingers warm and strong. “So, there _will_ be a next time?” he said, hopeful and hesitant at once.

“Of course,” Castiel replied, deadpan. “I still have a lot of boxes in the basement.”

Dean groaned and smacked him lightly on the hip. “Oh, man, you _suck_.”

“Only if you ask nicely.”

They both dissolved into laughter, which settled into chuckling, which settled into kissing, slow now and easy.

When they drew apart, Dean stroked Castiel’s cheek and smiled a smile unlike any of his previous ones: something soft, neither brash this time, nor uncertain. “Welcome to Lawrence, Castiel Novak,” he said. “I hope you’ll like it here.”

Castiel tried not to think of the future too hard, tried not to make too much of the quiet sincerity in those green eyes, but he smiled in return. “Thank you, Dean. I think will.”


End file.
